


The Edge of Day

by northcountry



Category: Queen of the South (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble, F/M, Short One Shot, season 3 jeresa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northcountry/pseuds/northcountry
Summary: The way she casually takes a sip from his coffee in the morning, like it’s the most natural thing to do. Like it’s nothing (but somehow everything). There’s half a challenge in her gaze, and her fingers brush against his as she hands back the cup.(A smattering of domestic Jeresa moments set between 3x09 and 3x10)





	The Edge of Day

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of a tumblr prompt, and it's pure unadulterated fluff. Hope you enjoy! :)

The way she casually takes a sip from his coffee in the morning, like it’s the most natural thing to do. Like it’s nothing (but somehow everything). There’s half a challenge in her gaze, and her fingers brush against his as she hands back the cup. He's made it thick and black, a bitter jolt to the senses (just the way she likes it).

Standing at the bathroom mirror in nothing but one of his old t-shirts, the hem ghosting across her thighs. All tousled curls, sleepy and satisfied. This is the version of her he loves best - unguarded, unburdened, something quietly vulnerable in the exposed curves of her legs.

The way he’s practically vibrating with energy, almost driving off the road as he thinks about the fluttering of her pulse under his mouth. The echoes of her body crawling deep under his skin.

Mornings spent in honey-dappled sheets, the sunlight curling through the blinds and teasing them into lazy wakefulness. Tangled limbs and clothes lying forgotten on the bedroom floor.

Some evenings, when the air is close and thick with the promise of a sultry tomorrow, they’ll sit outside with their legs hanging over the edge of the pool, pressing ice-cold bottles of beer up against their skin. A bead of sweat trickles past her collarbone, and he traces its path with his eyes. Their reflections ripple strangely back at them, hip to hip and painted orange-pink by the setting sun.

_Can you help me with the zipper?_  Eyes dark as she pads barefoot down the hallway, shoes dangling from one hand. Behind closed doors, he pushes the shining curtain of hair to one side and buries his face in her neck, crowding her up against the vanity. They stumble together, clumsy with desire.

Afterwards, with her soft and pliant in his arms, he wonders how he ever lived without this. How he _could_ now that he has seen the constellations of scars and freckles scattered across her back. Reverently catalogued every inch of skin as she watched him from behind soft, dark lashes.

Waking up to the sound of running water and off-key humming through the bathroom door. She returns to bed in a coconut-scented cloud, damp tendrils escaping the towel wrapped around her hair and dripping water on his chest.

Ghosts linger sometimes in the purple shadows under her eyes and fitful nights spent twisted in sheets. So he chases them across her skin, lips feather-light over her eyelids to push away the darkness. 

Side by side in the car with the windows down, that little half-smile lingering at the corner of her mouth as she pushes back her hair in the humidity of the afternoon. She fiddles with the radio dials and he lets her, sunglasses masking the surge of affection he can't quite keep from bubbling up inside.

Fending for themselves in the kitchen after a long day of work. The oil hisses in the pan as they chop vegetables in companionable silence, the radio softly humming in the background. Half-empty wine glasses and elbows jostling at the sink. 

She meets his gaze across the pool table.  _What are we playing for?_ There’s something predatory in the angles of her body, and his eyes drop to her mouth. 

Pote makes cheesecake, and he watches her lick the last delicate crumbs from her fork. He tastes caramel on her tongue (and something like happiness).

She's wine-softened and glowing under the bar lights, cheeks dusted pink. A rare indulgence to celebrate a successful venture. Their eyes meet across the room and her mouth curves upward (every smile he coaxes from her feels like a victory). A knowing gleam in her eye paired with a subtle tilt of her head and he’s helplessly following her from the room.

The way their hands slide together as he helps her out of the car, all sharply tailored lines and spiky heels. Their fingers linger together a fraction longer than appropriate, and he holds back a shiver.

She doesn’t care for football but sits up with him anyways, curled into his side in the cozy light of the living room. She falls asleep before halftime, so he carefully drapes a blanket over her shoulders, hand lingering as he brushes some wayward curls from her face. 

Each gloriously ordinary thing committed to memory - his watch on her nightstand. Her sweater draped over his chair. A balm for the lingering uncertainty of thinking beyond this moment. Of  _next time_.

_Stay safe_. Her voice on the line settles heavy and warm somewhere in his chest, like a promise. He closes his eyes.  _You too_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Come hang out with me on tumblr at [northcountry39](http://northcountry39.tumblr.com)


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